Chapter 8
The council chambers reeked of old men.
Archer couldn’t stand the smell; it always made his temples throb painfully.
Their murmurs bounced off the walls loudly but died down the moment he entered the space.
Thank Christ.
With the storm unrelenting outside, rain lashed against the leaded windows in sheets, and a low, menacing growl of thunder rolled in the distance like a wild beast pacing beyond the walls.
Archer strode silently to the head of the table, his boots clicking sharply on the flagstone floor. His expression was carved from stone, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with determination. Calum flanked him, ever silent and alert, a storm of his own in the body of a man.
Better have some answers…
Archer made eye contact with him. Calum nodded as if he had read his thoughts clearly.
Around the long table, the councilmen rose in deference, some stiffer than others, and Archer waved them off. “Please sit; we have much to cover.”
Mack was already seated before Archer finished his order, fingers steepled before him, his pleasant face unreadable as always. A small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes played on his lips.
Does Eileen really ken him? There was recognition in her eyes when she saw him.
Archer waited for Calum, who always made a point to sit right before him. Then, his mind turned back to Eileen.
He hoped she was on her way back to her room, or at least someplace where she couldn’t get herself into trouble. He winced as he realized that it would be the perfect opportunity for her to sneak out without him being there to stop her.
“Let’s get to it, then,” he said, his voice firm and clipped, reinforcing his commanding presence. “There are two matters we need to discuss today. Both serious. One grave.”
The room stilled. Not a cough or a shuffle among them. Just the wind howling loudly beyond the shutters.
“First matter. One of our guards was murdered in cold blood last night. Slain just outside me chambers, he was.”
Gasps rippled through the table. Fergus, the eldest among them, let out a curse. Dugal gripped the arms of his chair, his gnarled hands white-knuckled. Murmurs followed, and then silence.
“Cut down at sunset. Quietly. Efficiently. Whoever did it kenned the watch patterns. Kenned our routes and calculated their moves precisely.”
“Saints preserve us,” Dugal muttered, visibly shaken. His beard trembled.
“Have we reason to think that it was aimed at ye, Me Laird?” Fergus asked, leaning forward. His old eyes were sharp, despite his advanced years.
“Aye,” Archer said flatly. “The man guarded me door. There was nay mistakin’ it. They wanted to kill me.”
More muttering. Dark looks exchanged across the table.
“Was it the O’Gunns, then?” Mack asked loudly, voicing what everyone was thinking.
“Ye ken they have long hated us. This… this could be a prelude,” Dugal commented.
“They’re restless,” Fergus added.
Archer clocked several nodding heads. He cast his gaze across the room before speaking again.
They’d been restless for a long time, and he couldn’t help but think that a union between Laird O’Gunn and Eileen Kilmartin would add just enough additional power to tip the scales in his favor to start and end a war.
He was fearful of both O’Gunn killing her if she went to him and not killing her and drawing her clan into a war.
He didn’t want Eileen dragged into a war. No lass deserved that, and he couldn’t bear to think about that animal O’Gunn putting his hands on her, tossing her around like a sack of potatoes, and doing things to her that no sane man would inflict on a bonny lass.
“We cannae go to war—our coffers cannae support it!” Henry said quickly.
“Speakin’ of our coffers, that brings me to the second matter. There was another death. Two days ago. At the village forge.”
“Why werenae we told sooner?” Fergus asked.
“Because,” Archer replied, “we are goin’ to hear the full tale here and now.”
He motioned for Mack to speak.
The man straightened his already perfect posture, and Archer tensed. He would normally have received this report before entering the room, but Eileen had been with him before the meeting, and he was unable to speak with Mack about the issue. Not knowing the details made him feel… odd.
Is there any end to the way that lass distracts me? It feels like she’s been in the castle for weeks and nae only a day or so.
“Aye, it was young Kenneth, one of the journeymen. The forge fire burned too quickly. Blacksmith said it smelled of oil, but others claim it was an accident and he was too close to the fire.” Mack made a gesture, suggesting that drinking may have been involved.
“An accident?” Calum growled. “Are we lettin’ drunk men handle steel, then?”
Archer almost smirked at the mention of drunkenness. Calum could drink with the best of them, and he would become something of a fool when he did, yet he always carried out his duties the next day with abject professionalism.
It hadn’t been long since he’d been in the tavern with Calum and Eileen, and Calum was still none the wiser that the lad he’d told to cheer up was their current guest.
What would ye think if ye kenned?
Archer still didn’t understand how Calum hadn’t seen it.
It was her eyes. They were far too alluring and feminine to be mistaken for a man’s, and something about the way she had held herself caught Archer’s eyes that night.
She’d done a good job in drawing his eye since then, especially when she threw the blankets off her earlier—though he wouldn’t let her see his weakness. He could look without looking.
Mack offered a thin smile. “There was a scuffle. Words exchanged over hours and pay. Kenneth was… reportedly under the influence. Lost his footing.”
“How convenient,” Calum muttered. “Ye honestly expect us to believe that load of rubbish, Mack?”
“It’s what I could find out in such a short amount of time.”
“Two days, Mack,” Calum scoffed loudly, and several others nodded in agreement. “A lack of knowledge isnae what we expect.”
Archer rubbed a hand over his jaw, the rasp of his stubble loud in the silence that followed Calum’s outburst. It sounded too tidy. Too rehearsed.
Red as Mack might be, Calum is right. It is unacceptable.
“One death in a keep that is already on edge? Perhaps. But two? Both precise? Timed? Intentional?” Archer muttered low enough for only Calum to hear.
His man-at-arms nodded in agreement.
A gnawing suspicion took root in his gut and refused to be quieted.
“We’ll need to dig into it again,” he declared. “Quietly. Get the names of all those present. Check the forge’s records. Deliveries. I want to ken about every single detail. Is that understood?”
Instead of looking at Mack or anyone else at the table, Archer looked at Calum, who nodded with grim satisfaction. “It will be done, Me Laird.”
Fergus shifted in his chair. “And what of last night? Was anything taken? Any sign of a thief or saboteur?”
“Nothin’ stolen. Nay sigils or signs. Just… carnage.”
Dugal leaned forward. “If the O’Gunns are makin’ their move, we should prepare for conflict.”
“We cannae afford it!” Henry protested again, his bird-like nose pointing downward at the ledger he clung dearly to.
“That is all very well, Henry,” Archer said calmly. “We arenae fools. We willnae rally anyone yet. The last thing I wish to do is send our lads marchin’ into blades over nothin’. We move carefully. We watch our own. Nothin’ discussed today leaves this room.”
He scanned the table again. Some nodded. A few remained stiff, uneasy.
The last thing I want is to send a lass into a blade over next to nothin’.
He thought about mentioning Reid Kilmartin, but if O’Gunn had taken him and there were spies in the castle, then he couldn’t risk tipping his hand until he knew more.
He liked to think that no spies were sitting around the table, breaking bread with him, but he was not so foolish as to think that it wasn’t a possibility.
He wouldn’t risk Eileen.
Mack watched him in silence, his smile faint but steady as always, but otherwise unmoving.
Before Archer could steer the discussion toward shoring up supply lines, Dugal—predictably—cleared his throat. “If I may, Me Laird?”
Archer felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.
“There is another matter, of course. That of yer betrothal and the future of this mighty clan.”
Archer was entirely fed up with this conversation. This meeting was not supposed to be about ridiculous notions of marriage and weddings, but the clan’s security. This meeting was about the safety of his people, of these men in this room.
He wasn’t quite sure why he said what he said next, but his mind was already made up.
“The clan doesnae need a marriage right now,” he said flatly. “It needs safety and security.”
“Aye, and a marriage will bring that, especially if we can secure an alliance with another clan who might nae be convinced of our viewpoint without it,” Dugal argued.
“Dinnae worry, it’s handled,” Archer told him.
Dugal raised a bushy eyebrow, his beady eyes almost visible. “Handled?”
Archer thought of Eileen and how handled the situation really was.
There was no doubt she was a woman who could stir the desire in any hot-blooded man, but she could also stir frustration and anger.
He wouldn’t mind having her in his bed, but he was glad the betrothal was a pretense and he wouldn’t have to deal with her for the rest of his life.
He straightened. “I am already betrothed, gentlemen. Can we please redirect our attention to more important matters?”
The words hung in the air like a dropped sword.
Chairs creaked. Mack’s fingers paused. Fergus dropped his quill.
“To whom?” Dugal asked.
Archer sighed loudly, bored with the conversation already. “Lady Eileen Kilmartin.”
There were more gasps this time. One of the younger men—Torren—actually choked on his breath.
“Ye jest,” Mack said smoothly.
“I wouldnae jest about this, Mack.”
Archer’s voice was as hard as the stone beneath their feet. He held every eye at that table like a man holding court before battle. Eileen hadn’t agreed to the terms yet, but he knew—he just knew that she would.
If she wishes to find her braither, she will agree.
“She’s here, man. Ye have just met her yerself!” Calum interjected, slamming his palm on the large oak table. Defending Archer without any backstory or notice. “She’s a good, strong woman of good repute.”
One ye drank with in the tavern and who tried to sneak out of the castle in search of her braither. But apart from that and all of her other foibles, I’m sure she’ll cause nay trouble.
Archer smiled to himself. It was one of those rare occasions where his best friend demonstrated, yet again, his unwavering loyalty.
“I had nay idea, Me Laird. I would have offered more congratulations,” Mack said, his smile faltering as if he’d gravely misstepped.
“All is well, Mack. There will be other opportunities. As Calum said, she is here already.”
Fergus recovered next. “Congratulations, Me Laird. Lady Eileen Kilmartin is very—Well, ye are a lucky man for sure.”
Disgust coated Archer’s tongue at the sneer that played on Fergus’s chapped lips—the jealousy within the man’s words and expression—and Calum nudged his knee with the hilt of his dirk. The unasked question lingered between the men. Want me to kill him?
Archer cracked a smile then. “Aye, she is, indeed.”
I dinnae care whether she’s well-regarded or nae. She’ll do for now, and havin’ someone around the castle lookin’ like her cannae hurt. Let’s see if she cannae be a little fun between her outbursts.
“Aye,” said Torren.
He didn’t miss Calum’s eye roll, and he hummed. “Our arrangement is new, but it suits us both. Thank ye for the well wishes.”
Mack dipped his head, his smile wider now. “How fortunate yer timing is, indeed. A union like this will… surely strengthen ties.”
Archer nodded once. “That’s the aim, as we have discussed several times before. Is it nae?”
“Indeed, Me Laird,” Mack agreed, his casual smile resting on his otherwise red face.
The rest of the meeting dragged on, far longer than Archer had anticipated. He was only half-listening, as his temples started throbbing again. Every new topic was the primary aim of each man at the table—a stone added to the weight on his back.
Fergus brought up troop positions. Torren inquired about winter storage.
Dugal listed out the statuses of the clan’s trade agreements.
The discussions and updates carried on around him like a slow tide, but his thoughts kept returning to the deaths, to Eileen, and to the tension crawling down his spine.
When the meeting finally ended, the councilmen filed out slowly, muttering amongst themselves. Most seemed pleased with his announcement. Some seemed quietly suspicious.
Archer lingered by the hearth, letting the fire’s warmth chase away the chill. Then came the voice.
“Laird MacLennan.”
Archer turned.
Henry Millar stood in the doorway, hands folded behind his back.
Of middling height and steady build, he always wore his position like a tailored cloak.
Not ostentatious, but unmistakable. His blond hair, peppered with grey now, was combed back neatly.
His pale blue eyes were calm and steady. He always reminded Archer of a bird.
“Henry,” Archer said, inclining his head.
“I only wished to check on ye. After last night. A disturbing thing, to be sure.”
Henry had served Archer’s father. A man of ledgers and land taxes, he’d kept the clan’s finances in order for decades. And when Archer had taken the mantle, Henry had offered smooth guidance. As had all of his father’s councilmen.
Archer gave the man a tight smile. “I’m fine, Henry.”
“Och, good. Good. And the lass? Erm, Lady Eileen Kilmartin. Ye seem elated?”
“Elated,” Archer repeated blandly.
Normally, an announcement of marriage to one of the most sought-after women in the Highlands would have been a point of pride.
Perhaps it was because the matter wasn’t settled yet, or because the betrothal was forced down his throat by the very men in this room.
Either way, he couldn’t muster a lighter tone, but Henry didn’t seem to mind.
“Glad to hear it!” the man said, smiling and laughing oddly to himself. “Well, if ye find that ye need anything from the books—”
“I’ll let ye ken, Henry.”
Henry dipped his head respectfully. “Then I’ll leave ye to yer thoughts, Me Laird.”
He turned and exited with the same quiet grace he always carried.
As the door closed behind him, Archer stayed where he was, staring into the fire.
Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones. Like a splinter too deep to reach, but ever aching.